


Disconnect

by mtn_dew_red



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz (Two River Cast) Actor RPF, Be More Chill - Ned Vizinni
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Body Image, Cutting, Depressed Michael Mell, Gender Dysphoria, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Michael Mell Has Two Moms, Michael Mell Needs a Hug, POV First Person, POV Michael, Pain, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Michael Mell, Trans Male Character, Trans Michael Mell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtn_dew_red/pseuds/mtn_dew_red
Summary: Feeling  numb, Michael turns to the only coping mechanism he knows.Warning! // Do not read if you will be triggered by this. PLEASE mind the tags. This is dark- seriously. There are graphic depictions of self harm.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Disconnect

**Author's Note:**

> // VENT//
> 
> This is a huge ass vent fic, in all honesty. I needed an outlet and someone to project onto. Poor Michael got the short end of the stick.

I stare at the wall across from my bed, breathing shallow as my mind goes completely numb and blank. I've felt this way for a few days now- empty like a void needing to be filled. It's scarily calming, and sadly familiar. With every day that passes, I feel this way more and more consistently. Like I have no emotion at all. I want to feel, but I can't.  
  
I'm not quite sure what provokes me to do it, but one minute I'm sitting on my bed, and the next my legs are carrying the rest of my body up the basement stairs and into the up stairs bathroom. I shut the door behind me carefully, locking it. It was nearly two in the morning, if my clock read correctly, so I had to be quiet.  
  
I stare at myself for a long moment in the mirror above the sink. At my slightly chubby face, framed by glasses. The ugly few pimples on my forehead and chin. My nose, which looked too big to me, and stood out awkwardly. I peel off my shirt, taking a glimpse at my chest, which was encased by my binder.  
  
Never a real man. Not with a body like this. I can see the outline of my nipples through the elastic fabric, and the thought of what's underneath makes me feel sick. I reach inside of the binder, hand palming my chest as I shift the tissue back towards my armpits in an attempt to look flatter. It doesn't quite work, and I'm left feeling more dysphoric than before.  
  
My eyes look over the pudge of my upper arms, and I frown in disgust as they trail downward to my stomach. Pudgy. Fat. Undesirable and covered in long, white stretch marks. I trace one with my finger, following it until it tapers off. Yet another imperfection that I can't seem to fix. Shakily, I work my shorts off of my hips, left now in my boxers and weed print socks.  
  
I put my hands on my hips, disgusted at the hourglass shape it makes with my torso. It's not right, having a body like this. It makes me feel too feminine. Part of me wants someone to just lay me down on a table and roll it out, flattening my stomach and making this tiny detail disappear. I eye my thighs, and the fading scars that litter them. I never cut up my arms. They were too obvious- my mothers insisted on checking them after I'd become depressed like this. I always have to injure my thighs. They never ask to see those.  
  
My thighs were too chubby. Too fat. I hated them. I hated everything about myself. It wasn't mine. Wasn't ME. So I have to destroy it.  
  
I feel nothing at all when I bend down to open the cabinet under the marble counter, sifting through old makeup until I find a small eyeshadow palette. This was the one I was looking for. I open the hinged lid, and out falls a razor blade, a little dusty from where it has been stored. I pick it up, setting the little palette on the counter and digging through unopened shampoos to find a bottle of rubbing alcohol and my bag of cotton balls.  
  
Standing back up, I put my spoils down on the marble, popping the cap of the alcohol and soaking a cotton ball in the sharp-smelling clear liquid. I run the cotton over the razor, cleaning it up and making it shine- disinfecting it at least a little before I use it. Hey, at least I care a little about infection.  
  
Once the blade is sufficiently clean, I huff out a sigh, lowering the toilet lid and sitting down on top of the porcelain. I pull the legs of my boxers up a bit, exposing the squishy tops of my thighs. I've done this too many times to count, and yet I still feel the blood rushing to my ears as the cool metal touches my skin.  
  
In one swift movement, I jerk the blade across the skin of my thigh, creating a neat line in the marred flesh. Instantly, it stings, and I can't tell if it's from the blade itself or the remnants of rubbing alcohol; probably both. After a few moments, it begins to bleed, and I watch as blood bubbles up in round, red pearls, glinting in the fluorescent bathroom light. I can feel relief flood through me, like a high without the drug, all my emotions being released through this tiny wound. It feels good. It feels natural. 

I press the blade to my skin again, creating another similar cut, and then another, and another, and several more just like it. Soon, several red, bleeding cuts line the pudgy skin of my thighs. They bubble with crimson and ache, and I somehow couldn't feel more at peace. I use my fingers to pry apart the skin next to one, feeling the way it stings and tears and the bleeding continues in earnest.  
  
It's almost pretty, how the blood beads up on my skin. I swipe one of my fingers along a cut, admiring the way the liquid gleams on my finger.  
  
I continue to cut myself up like a piece of meat, not stopping until I feel satisfied with the results. There are countless long, puffy wounds on my skin now- some bleeding, some dried, and some somewhere in between. With weak knees, I stand up from where I'm seated, gripping the counter for support and crouching to look in the cabinet again. The movement opens a few of my cuts, and I internally wince before producing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Disinfection was always a routine with these things for me. Again, at least I worried about infection.  
  
I sit once more, unscrewing the cap and gently pouring the liquid onto my wounds. It hurts like hell, and I have to grit my teeth and bare it as I tear up. I'm careful not to make any noises of discomfort and wake my moms. That would be unfortunate- them waking up to find their son sat on the lid of the toilet, frantically disinfecting the self-harm mess that was his thighs. They'd be heartbroken. They're one of the only reasons I haven't just offed myself yet, really. I'm scared of what state I'll leave them behind in.  
  
I watch the hydrogen peroxide bubble and fizz as it cleans my cuts, listening to it's gentle hiss and letting the noise soothe me, taking away from the pain at least a little. Once I feel they're clean, I run a cotton ball under a trickle of water from the sink, gently swiping it along my wounds and cleaning up the last of the blood. I don't bother with bandages, I just stand, pulling on my shorts to cover the evidence, tucking everything away under the cabinet where it came from, and flushing a few blood-soaked cotton balls. I can't merely throw them away- Nanay digs through the trash.  
  
Once I'm done, I look at myself in the mirror again, still just as ugly, but not nearly as empty feeling.  
  
I leave the bathroom and turn out the light, returning to my bedroom like I had only gotten up to pee. I shoot Jeremy a good night text, roll over, and fall into a restless sleep, thighs aching and cuts coming open with every shift and flex. I'd find small bloodstains on the insides of my shorts in the morning, and I'd have to scrub them out in the sink before my moms could see... but for now, I am content.


End file.
